Getting Out the Door

          One Christmas, my husband gave me a gorgeous new pair of Women’s Power Streaker Winged Flyers RD 9560s. Six months later, with the grass a brilliant green and temperature threatening 90, my new running shoes still looked abysmally new.

            Never mind that I lived a mere three blocks from New York City’s Riverside Park, with its lovely winding paths along the sparkling Hudson. Or that after my infrequent paltry spurts, I was sure I’d worked off the monster brownie that had waylaid me at lunch. Or that running has become as accepted for women as working full-time. I was living testimony to an early (woman) sports physician’s observation: “The hardest step for a woman who wants to run is the first one out the door.”

            I bargained: Won’t yoga in the bedroom boost my whole being? How many laps around the living room sofa make a mile? 

            When I did manage to sneak up on running, the obstacles seemed endless. First was clothes. It wasn’t what to wear but how much it would hide. In winter, I could minimize the perennial fifteen excessive pounds under an XL sweatshirt and faded pair of loose overalls. But summer? I finally unearthed an old pair of tent-sized Bermudas and oversized work shirt, tails out, of course.

Super Stumbling Blocks

            But the trials were far from over. Those two blocks to the park loomed like a marathon. Rather than cheering spectators, the route was lined with smirking building superintendents. They didn’t sweep steps or polish brass but sat on the stoops smoking, leaned against the double-parked cars, or lounged in their doorways and leered lasciviously at every woman who passed by, even me.

Passing the supers, though, brought the next ordeal. At the interminable light on Broadway, other female runners stretched or jogged in place. They owned the streets, like the one next to me the last time I made it out.

The Competition

           She had a pinched waist to die for, high nylon shorts, and nipple-sheer tank top. With tousled blonde curls and a perfect nose, her face shone a fine film of dew. At the light, she stretched with undulating ease, and I wanted to kill, or least skulk back home. Instead, I swallowed hard, tried to suck in my gut, and kept moving toward the park.

A Friend Is Someone Who Runs With You

Then I thought, Make it easier on yourself. Find someone to run with.

First, it was my husband, the lean sub-seven ten-miler with the muscular legs. He shepherded me out the door and down the street, kindly adjusting his pace. I envisioned a cozy shower later and some inside fun.

          Back at our entrance, he announced, “Just gonna do another few miles.” And faster than a speeding subway, he turned and streaked down the block toward the park. So much for meaningful companionship.

          I took off my shoes, shook out my socks, and did two half sit-ups. Then I fixed a big bowl of cocoa puffs, added a cup of peanuts and a heaping gob of marshmallow crème, and settled into the TV.

            Next, I tried a friend. Not a runner, she nevertheless promised to cheer me on. Meeting at the park, we started chattering instantly, and I ran easily. But I’d forgotten she was a chain smoker. Coughing between sentences, I tried not to breathe or think about second-hand smoke. And I suspected I wasn’t airing my robics.   

        After these failed attempts, I realized that if I were ever to stop starting to run, I’d have to brave it alone.  

          So, early one summer morning, I forced myself to change into my oversized outfit, got past the supers and supple fawns, and reached the park.

Peering People

          And encountered the people. They appeared to be reading or watching the squirrels, but as you approached, their hawk eyes focused on you. A thin old man, bent over his paper to make it last all morning, squinted up and muttered with disdain at my slow gait. A sausage-shaped woman clutching a jumble of shopping bags shook her head at my bouncing chest. A pair of stunning young girls with red nails and elaborate hair giggled their dominance and stared me down over their sugared donuts and texting phones.

Unlikely Inspiration

          I pushed on. But three blocks from the half-mile mark, my legs were giving out and chest caving in. Next to the path, against the park’s stone wall, two Black studs holding beer bottles slouched and stared. I dragged by, wheezing like an asthmatic. Suddenly one of them broke into a high piercing refrain, as if from a platinum single:

                                                You Can Ma-aake It

                                                If You Try-y-y . . . .

           From where did my sudden spurt of energy spring that sent me flying down the three blocks and back all the way home?

          After this, I had to admit the people in the park weren’t all bad. My next foray, a record two days later, confirmed this conclusion.

A Moving Role Model

         On a morning four days later, as I panted by, a father and his daughter came into sight. He was tall and trim and wore navy and white coordinated trunks and tank top. His daughter, no more than four, was all got up in her tiny pink t-shirt, matching shorts, and baby Nikes. A white headband with pink clouds peeked through her brown curls.

            They ran on the grass, the father matching his stride to hers. At each step, he repeated in strong, patient tones, “Lift those knees, lift those knees, at-a-girl, lift those knees.” With an earnestness encouraged by his love, she did.

          Seeing them, my eyes teared, and I envisioned her grown up. Whatever adult fears or ills might plague her, her father’s words would carry her. This little girl, I knew, would never have trouble getting out her door to run.

          Three days later, my running resolve again almost overtaken by habitual excuses, I thought of that wise tutoring father and his daughter. Untouched by starers, grousers, or critics, they honed in on the goal and joy of achievement.       

            I jumped off the couch, laced up my Flyers, and tied my shirttails at the waist. Faster than a starter’s gun, I pulled open the front door, lifted my knees, and sprinted out.

BIO:

Author, editor, writing coach, and spiritual counselor, Noelle Sterne, PhD, has published many pieces in literary and academic venues. Her handbook, Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation, addresses doctoral candidates’ dissertation-related woes. In Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams, Noelle helps readers reach their lifelong yearnings. https://trustyourlifenow.com